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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24026053">Beneath Thin Lids</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper'>spacehopper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Horror, M/M, Possessive Behavior</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:16:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24026053</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin sleeps, and Jon cannot still the scratching at the seams of his skull.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Beneath Thin Lids</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin sleeps, and Jon cannot still the scratching at the seams of his skull. Whispers borne on bony fingers that wish to pry him open, to fill him even as they hollow him out, to turn him to new and terrible purpose. </p>
<p>When Martin is awake, when he smiles and talks and tries to make tea with lies long gone cold, it is easier to ignore it. The way Martin is not quite right, a jagged stained glass shard in the shifting rose window Jon tries not to look through, for how it distorts the world into its true form. </p>
<p>But Martin sleeps, and if Jon could look away they would not be here now. In their place would be the world, but it can no longer be. They can no longer be. Not as they were and not as they are becoming, though they cling to the tatters of buried desire and remembered identity. </p>
<p>The window through which he looked has fallen from the sky, has cut and stitched him back together into a reflection he does not recognize, but cannot fail to know. And though Jon does not dream, he follows familiar paths not quite forgotten. Screams wear deeper than footsteps, and so he is brought to his feet. Turning off the tape recorder to pace the halls of the cozy cabin, until he stands over Martin’s bed. </p>
<p>Their bed, in truth. Or it would be truth, if Jon had need for sleep, need for comfort, need for the warm and breathing form with hair scattered across his brow. Need is a strange and shifting thing. It flows through his fingers before he can capture its form. </p>
<p>But perhaps he does need this, for he is seated on the bed before he has decided to move. Decision itself is a luxury he is no longer sure belongs to him. The thought catches him. For a moment he follows,  fingers curling around the threads to tug them into sight.</p>
<p>They slip. Martin whimpers, and Jon’s attention snaps. To him, yet entombed in fitful rest, and it is this that Jon must see. Closer, closer, until they would be one if not for how their ends don’t meet, no matter how Jon tries to put the pieces back together. Martin stirs, but does not wake, cannot wake from the heavy fog that twists around him, and drags him along familiar paths of his own. </p>
<p>Eyeballs twitch beneath thin lids, as if to escape that small barrier that flesh still affords. They scrape against Jon’s mind, trembling underneath his all too steady fingers as he traces their concealing folds. There is no where he can go but closer, nothing he can do but try to see. To know what hides behind those eyelids, what festers within those eyes.</p>
<p>Under his gaze, they try to escape, turning to fog bound shores and mist drenched seas. But there is no escape here. They belong to him, just as Martin belongs to him, belongs to them, a greater whole he does not care to name but cannot help but know. He leans over Martin. His breath is nearly hot enough to drive away the chill for a moment, as Martin sighs beneath his touch.</p>
<p>But still, it is not enough. And so he presses his lips to one lid, tasting salt on skin, licking away the wretched reminders of a man rightfully torn asunder. Martin whimpers, and it is almost enough for Jon to relent, even as he turns his attention to the other eye. His tongue sweeping across each hidden crease and concealed pocket, until it too is cleansed. </p>
<p>He cannot—will not—remove what Martin has chosen. But there are certain truths which remain. The eyes belong to him. </p>
<p>And so as Martin stirs beneath him, he peels back the lids.</p>
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